


Dressed to Kill

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Series: looks to die for [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bucky Barnes looks damn good in a suit and that's just a fact, Explicit Language, F/M, Flirting, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Second Person, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Swearing, Vaginal Sex, assassin reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: A wrench is thrown in your latest mission when the world’s best assassin interrupts your carefully planned hit. Now you’ve got to distract the Winter Soldier so your crew can carry out the objective. Just so long asyoudon’t get distracted, too…





	Dressed to Kill

**Author's Note:**

> This was writting for a Tumblr challenge. My prompt was ‘through the looking glass’ (two people share a moment when their eyes meet across a glass barrier), and yes I _absolutely_ got carried away. I hope you don't mind ;-)

“Kasie.”

“Mm?” Kasie’s voice crackles in your comm device.

“Remind me why you made me leave the blanket in the car?”

“Discomfort builds character.”

“My character is plenty built, thank you very much,” you mutter. You shift on your elbows and add concrete to your list of least favorite surfaces to lie flat on. The lip of the building is just high enough to keep you from lying flat. Without the blanket or elbow pads, you’re suffering.

Well, discomfort for a couple hours is worth the payout. At least it’s warm out.

The building across the street is a posh hotel, and on the second floor there’s a ballroom stuffed with elites. Fancy drinks, fancy chandeliers, fancy jewels all sparkle in the night.

Kasie’s in the getaway car downstairs, you’ve got the gun, and all you’re waiting for is confirmation that the target’s inside. That’ll come from Luka, who’s ferrying hors d'oeuvres around the ballroom. You can make him out through your scope, even if he is a few inches shorter than most of the other men in the room.

But no word yet. No sight of the target, either, though you’ve got your binoculars trained on the door.

Then again, the party only started thirty minutes ago. And your target is notorious for being fashionably late.

You check your watch. Yeah, he’s not showing up for another hour at _least_.

Great.

“Hey Kasie.”

“For fu—what is it this time?”

“Remind me why we didn’t set up a camera so we could see when he left his house?”

Kasie just groans.

You grin, baring your teeth to the wind. If Kasie’s going to give you snark about the rooftop, you’re damn well going to give some back.

Snark or not, you tend to get chatty on missions like this. Up on a rooftop, all alone, there’s not much else to do. It’s not like you can read a book, and podcasts are right out. Kasie… permits it. You’re the best shot she’s found, with the exact same moral compass. Match made in heaven, really. Luka’s the one who doesn’t get to talk business. Of course, _he_ gets to snack on hors d’oeuvres when he has to replenish his trays.

Lucky bastard.

Of course, the best missions are undercover. And since you’re the killer, you usually get the nicest goods. Fancy dresses, killer shoes (sometimes literally), swanky jewelry… A nice break from lying on concrete. Let’s see, which dress would you wear tonight?

“Fuck,” Kasie says. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

You sit up a little, scanning the crowd as your heart beats fast in your chest.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Winter Soldier.”

Your blood runs cold.

“ _Here?_ ” you squeak. “Why?!”

“Who cares! He just went in the building. We gotta call it off.”

“No way! The payout—”

“No payout is worth a run-in with an Avenger, or did you forget that they’re on the other side of the law?”

“This isn’t War Machine,” you argue. You sit up, your binoculars trained on the door.

“No, this is one of the world’s best assassins!”

“ _I’m_ one of the world’s best assassins,” you mutter.

“Well you haven’t had a hundred years to perfect your skills! Get off the roof and come down _now_. This conversation is over.”

Kasie cuts the line.

You swear and slap the concrete—thank god you’re wearing gloves. Damn it, this was the best job your crew had gotten in months! Enough for a nice vacation—somewhere warm, tropical, where the only things worth killing were the fish.

And a worthy target, too. Rex Carston ticked off every box: human smuggling, embezzlement, chronically underpaying his lower-tier employees, tax evasion of the _worst_ degree, multiple cases of sexual assault, blackmailing the victims… The list just doesn’t end!

“No,” you mutter, knowing full well Kasie can’t hear you. “This guy needs to _die_.”

You heft your binoculars back into place, eyes narrowed as you scanned the ballroom for the Winter Soldier. Ah—there, not far from the door. The crowd shifts, granting you a full view of him. He’s in navy blue. In… in a…

Three-piece suit.

You swallow. God damn. God _damn_. You’ve never seen him in the flesh before, and oh lord, even from across the street, through binoculars and a window, he’s a vision. The suit is _divine_ , clinging in all the right places and with just enough give to make it hard to tell if he’s armed.

Well, you know he’s armed. That’s just common sense. But there’s no telling where.

God, what you wouldn’t give to go searching him right now…

You trail your binoculars back up to his face.

You freeze.

He’s _staring_ at you. Eyes narrowed, lips barely parted—he can’t be looking at you, can he? It’s dark, you’re wearing dark colors, you blend in.

You lower the binoculars, ignoring the slight shaking of your hands. If you squint, you can just make his expression out. He’s… smiling?

Oh. He’s not looking at you.

You let out a slow breath between your teeth and settle back down on your elbows. This time, you watch Bucky Barnes through the scope of your rifle.

Ah, right. The safety is still on. Good. You follow him around the room with your eyes, watching as he snags a flute of champagne off of— _gulp_ —Luka’s tray. Luka, bless him, looks wonderfully bland, but you catch Bucky studying him all the same. Of course, as seconds tick by, you realize he’s studying everyone. He’s more focused than you are, and you’re looking at the hottest guy you’ve seen since your trip to Cancun.

After a few minutes, your skin starts to crawl. Bucky’s not just mingling. He’s _moving_. He’s moving towards the window.

Towards _you._

“Fuck,” you mutter. You sit up on your knees and grab the binoculars. Maybe, by some chance, he hasn’t seen the gun. Maybe he thinks you’re just watching.

You snort. World’s best assassin? Yeah, no, he knows _exactly_ what you’re doing here.

He’s at the window now, facing the room. You can see a sliver of his cheek. Is he smiling again? Maybe. It’s hard to tell.

The comm device in your ear crackles to life.

“Where the fuck are you?” Kasie snaps.

You wince and throw the device away, eyes wide. Bucky is tapping out a rhythm on his thigh. Morse code, of course. You pull out your phone, open the translation app—yes, you have a Morse code translator on your phone, you’re a _professional_ —and tap in his repeating message.

.--- --- .. -. / - .... . / .--. .- .-. - -.--

JOIN THE PARTY

Your jaw drops. You look between Bucky and your phone, sputtering.

Join the—what?! No, you are not going _joining the party!_ You’re here to commit murder, not schmooze! The _nerve!_

You shove your phone back in your pocket, cheeks flaming. Kasie’s right. As always. What had possessed you to stay so long? He must have gotten a good look at your face…

“Fuck.”

Bucky’s turned to face you now, and he’s smiling again. Smiling! You can’t fathom why. What’s he even doing here? Shouldn’t he be off with the Avengers, defeating aliens or terrorists? What’s a swanky party got for him?

He takes a sip of champagne, eyebrows raised expectantly. He lowers the glass and draws his lower lip into his mouth. From here, with the binoculars, you can make out the blue in his eyes, the dimple in his scruffy chin, the plush pink of his bottom lip as he releases it from between his teeth.

Are your knees weak? It must be the concrete.

He’s still waiting.

How on earth are you supposed to respond? Sure, you’d love to join the party. Undercover missions are _fun_. But you’re wearing your boring stealth clothes, not a glamorous party dress.

You gesture at your clothes and shrug. Bucky squints a little, then nods in reluctant understanding. He tips his head at you, winks, and melts back into the crowd.

If your eyes weren’t glued to him, you’d’ve lost him in a second. As it is, all you can do is stare. Until you hear the crackle of your comm at last, and remember where you are.

Blood rushes in your ears as you disassemble your weapon, pack up your gear, and snag your comm device from where it had landed a few feet away.

“I’m coming, Kasie, I’m coming,” you say quickly, interrupting her diatribe.

You zip up your duffel and sit back on your heels for a last look at the crowd. There’s Luka, still blending in, and Bucky a few feet away, his eyes on the back of Luka’s head until he glances up towards you. His expression softens a little, though you don’t know if he can see you from his spot amidst the twinkling lights.

You finally scurry away, heart pounding. Down the dark stairwell, around and around until you spill out onto the street and hurtle into the back seat of the getaway car. Kasie drives off, shoulders around her ears. Her silence falls heavy, but you’re too distracted to care. All you can focus on is your rooftop exchange with Bucky Barnes.

What _was_ that?

The smile, the expectant look, the way he bit his lip… Did you just have a silent moment with the Winter Soldier? God, what you wouldn’t give to have a dress, to go back there right now, march upstairs, and run your hand down his lapel. You can’t contain a shudder.

Kasie catches your eye in the rearview mirror, her lips pressed tight together.

“So,” she says, slow and low and furious.

“I’m sorry, okay?” You cross your arms and look away. “I got… held up.”

“He _saw_ you!” Kasie explodes. She bangs her hand against the steering wheel; her dark skin is even darker than usual by angry spots high on her cheeks. “Minutes! Minutes, you idiot! What the hell were you thinking? What, did a flock of bats come and surround you? No! They didn’t!”

You rub your temples with a wince. You don’t have the heart to interrupt Kasie. She’s totally right.

“—saw you so know who _knows_ what the situation’s gonna be with our mark!”

Kasie’s breathing heavily after her loud lecture, but she seems done. You frown at your lap. The mark?

Oh, right. This was all for a job. Getting lost in the Winter Soldier’s eyes wasn’t the point of the evening, just a distraction.

Your shoulders stiffen.

A distraction? _You?_ A _distraction?_

You weren’t having a _moment_ with the Winter Soldier. He was playing you! Reeling you in like a freaking _fish_. Your hands curl into fists on your knees, shame and embarrassment throbbing in your gut.

Of course Kasie is pissed. You’re the best shot she’s got, but every ounce of common sense dictates you sit the rest of this job out. Low profile doesn’t exactly mesh with ‘murder a billionaire.’

He was reeling you in the whole time. For some reason, the realization hurts.

Is he following now? You lean forward to peek at Kasie’s laptop in the passenger seat. No, there he is in the grainy live feed of the party. Slick as ever, and still thoroughly beyond reach.

God, if only you had a dress.

You’d show him.

 

—

 

Sure enough, Kasie boots you off the job to kill Rex Carston. You stay holed up in the hotel, alternating between moping and furiously daydreaming about what you’d have done if you only could have joined the party. Murder, absolutely. The target for sure, and the Winter Soldier half the time too.

The other half…

Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing Kasie and Luka are out of the hotel a lot.

It’s been a week now, and the target is still alive and kicking. Carston’s going to another event tonight, this time at the opera. Luka’s on point, with all the right equipment tucked neatly into his gray suit. No guns, but the usual tricky little things. A ring with a tiny needle, a device to wreak havoc with camera feeds, a tube of mints laced with—well, the toxins are beyond you, but it’s laced.

Luka sits in the other bed and rubs polish into his dress shoes. There’s a little pinch between his eyebrows as he works on the right toe.

“Wish I could go with you,” you say with sigh.

He glances up at you, eyes twinkling. “Too bad. If only you hadn’t sat in plain view of the Winter Soldier for ages.”

“He saw me right away,” you grumble. You flop down on the bed and cross your arms across your chest.

“Maybe,” Luka says. He angles his shoe in front of his face, checking for any lingering scuffs. “Maybe not.”

Kasie comes in from the bathroom. Her hair is teased up into a pompadour, but it’s the bright eyeshadow and killer contouring that draws your eye. She looks totally different from her usual down-to-earth self, which is entirely the point, but better than that she looks absolutely fantastic.

“Oh man, that looks so good.” You sit up and bat your eyelashes. “Kasie, when are you gonna teach me your ways?”

“Maybe when you regain my trust,” she says snidely. She grabs her deep red dress off its hanger and ducks back into the bathroom to change.

“You gonna wear a red pocket square to match?” you ask Luka.

“No, we go in separately, remember?”

“Can’t say I was paying full attention when you were making plans without me.” You stick your tongue out at him; he rolls his eyes. “I was kidding, anyway. I guess I’ll just suffer alone.”

Luka studies you, his close gaze a little disconcerting. “Why didn’t you just leave when she asked?”

“I—He—” You shift awkwardly. “I dunno, Luka! Maybe because he looks like sex on legs? If Kasie’d said he was wearing a three-piece suit before I coughs sight of him I woulda been prepared.”

Luka laughs.

Your cheeks burn. You flop down again with a blush bright enough to light up the whole city.

“Shut up, Luka,” you mutter.

He reaches over to pat your leg. “Don’t worry, it’ll pass. Tomorrow we’ll be home free.”

“Yeah, with giant piles of cash waiting for you and pennies for me.” You shake your leg to dislodge his hand.

“Eh, it’s the price of doing business.”

“A hefty price.”

Luka grins as he stands. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your island one day.”

 

—

 

Kasie lets you drive Luka to the opera.

“But for god’s sake, keep a low profile,” she orders.

So you take the subtle car, Luka beside you in his crisp suit and coiffed dyed hair, and drive through the downtown to the opera house. There’s a line of cars waiting to drop off their esteemed passengers.

You drum your fingers on the wheel as you wait for the line to inch forward. “Remind me why you can’t just get out here?”

“Appearances,” Luka says drily. “Would _you_ have gotten out a block away?”

You don’t bother answering.

Of course you wouldn’t.

Another car drives off; you take your foot off the brakes and inch forward. You can finally make out the people going in. More gorgeous dresses, more fancy suits. Cocktail more than ballgown, to be sure, but it’s all good. It’s all great.

You sigh as you eye one tall man whose back is to you. A dark gray suit that does nothing to conceal a divine figure—strong shoulders, trim waist, legs for days…

And long brown hair.

Your heart skips a beat.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

“What?” Luka says. He cranes his neck a little, frowning.

“We need to go.” You turn the wheel sharply and bang a u-turn, glancing in the rear-view mirror once before the opera’s entrance is out of sight.

The man in the gray suit turns his head just enough for your heart to stop.

“The Winter Soldier,” you say, and Luka groans.

“Again?”

 

—

 

“Again?!”

Kasie’s still at the hotel—it’s only a ten minute drive, and the event doesn’t properly start for fifteen—and you’ve cornered her in the lobby.

“How did you not realize?” you hiss.

Kasie grabs your arm and drags you back to the elevator. Luka follows, eyes wide.

“He knows me,” he whispers. “I can’t go back there!”

“That’s why we left, dumbass,” you snap. You clench your teeth. “Kasie, we’re running out of time! Carston leaves town tomorrow!”

Kasie ushers you and Luka back to the hotel room. Once the door closes, she sits heavily on the closest bed, rubbing her temples.

“He must be on to us,” she says wearily.

You shift your weight, heat pricking at your face again. Was all this your fault? Or was this his whole reason for coming in the first place?

Surely an Avenger isn’t here to _protect_ a man like Rex Carston.

But what’s the alternative? Why else is he here?

Does Carston even know the Winter Soldier’s been shadowing him? You and your crew know who Bucky Barnes is—a legend, a danger, maybe even a competitor—but he’s not Tony Stark. Is Carston aware enough about superheros to recognize one in plainclothes? Or is Bucky Barnes just another slick man in a suit?

“Did he see _you_?” you ask Kasie.

She shrugs.

“Well, we know he saw Luka and me,” you reason. “So unless you do the deed—”

“This isn’t sex,” Luka interjects.

“—we’re busted for sure,” you finish.

“And how, exactly, am I supposed to keep him off my scent, genius?” Kasie says. She sits back on her hands, eyebrows raised.

You look up at the ceiling with a frown. What might distract the Winter Soldier enough to keep him from looking too hard at Kasie? He was so observant at the event last week.

A smile slowly spreads on your face. You look back to Kasie, a feral grin firmly in place.

“Leave it to me.”

 

—

 

“Keep the change,” you tell your cab driver. He raises his eyebrows a little, but smiles nonetheless. You open the door and climb out of the taxi, shaking out your dress as you straighten.

The opera house isn’t that big, but the façade is gorgeous. You look up at it, not bothering to hide the delight in your eyes as you wander up the steps. You pass Luka’s ticket to the doorman, who ushers you inside with an appreciative once-over.

There’s a cacophony of sounds inside—a quartet playing in the corner of the high-ceilinged atrium, the crowd meandering along the sweeping, red-carpeted staircase, champagne flutes tinkling on their trays. A waiter appears at your elbow, and you grab a drink with little intention of drinking.

You’ve got a job, after all.

Still, appearances are worth keeping. You wet your lips as you scan the room, heart beating a little faster than before. You recognize an array of faces from the event the week before. Tonight attracts the same crowd, give or take some music lovers and cultural connoisseurs. But you’re not interested in any of _them_.

There.

Bucky Barnes is most of the way up the staircase, his eyes running across the crowd much as yours had been. It’s only been half an hour since you first saw him on the sidewalk, but the sight of him now, on display as if on a pedestal, still makes you swallow and clench your thighs.

“Excuse me, miss.”

You step out of an elderly couple’s way, tearing your gaze away from Bucky before he spots you.

Are you flushed? Your cheeks are warm. Hopefully your hastily applied makeup hides any sudden blushes.

A slight bustle from behind grabs your attention. Your eyes widen despite yourself—it’s Rex Carston, a pretty brunette draped on his arm. They’re an attractive couple. For all his moral repugnancy, Carston has a nice face, and his date is gorgeous. You fix your face into a smile and turn away.

And bump right into someone. Your champagne sloshes, dampening your fingers.

You step back, cheeks flaming as you check your skirt for any stray drops. “Excuse me, I—”

“Finally decided to join the party, huh?”

You freeze. Your eyes drag up the gray pants—my god, the _thighs_ on this man—and over his broad chest until you finally meet the Winter Soldier’s eyes.

He’s smiling, his blue eyes dark as he looks you over. Your dress sweeps the floor, but the fabric clings tight to your torso and drapes lightly against your legs. You lick your alcohol-tinted lips and let a coy grin settle on your face.

“Well, I had to make sure I was dressed for the occasion,” you murmur.

“And don’t you clean up nice,” he says. He reaches out to tug the strap of your dress. Goosebumps linger in lieu of his fingers brushing your skin; heat flutters low in your belly when his voice lowers. “Fancy.”

You let out a slow breath, trying to maintain your composure. It’s a mission. You have a mission. This isn’t the time to lose your cool.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” You step a little closer and run your free hand down his lapel.

Bucky’s eyes gleam with approval. He tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow and steers you towards the sweeping staircase.

This is the life. Escorted by a gorgeous man up a red carpet staircase, wearing a beautiful dress and killer—not literally, alas—shoes, a glass of champagne in your hand, the taste of it lingering on your lips.

“So,” Bucky says, casually, “what brings you here?”

“Sadly, a very boring answer,” you say. “Work.” You exaggerate a roll of your eyes, and he chuckles. You can feel his eyes lingering on your face, but you don’t look back. “What about you?”

“The very same.”

Ah, so he _is_ here for work. If he’s being honest, that is.

“Of course,” he adds, “it hasn’t quite gone according to plan.”

“That’s too bad,” you say, heartbeat picking up. Does he mean you? You and your crew?

“Well, I’m not sure.” He adjusts his arm a little, giving you an even better sense of just how muscular he is. “Might be a good thing in the end.”

“Oh?” _How?_

“Mm.” He doesn’t elaborate.

You pause at the top of the staircase and discard your still-full champagne glass on a nearby table. You look over the crowd. Carston and his date are halfway up the stairs, and—you swallow—a familiar pompadoured woman is a few steps behind them. Kasie catches your eye for the briefest moment.

It’s a chilling reminder: you still have a job to do.

You turn back to Bucky, a fresh smile on your face.

“At least there’s tonight.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, you don’t have to work tonight, surely.”

He bites his lip, eyes dancing. Are you getting lost in those eyes?

Maybe.

“Surely,” he echoes.

You head towards the doors into the theater proper, but Bucky grabs your hand and tugs you close. You steady yourself with a hand on his left arm. It’s solid as a rock.

“Not there,” he whispers. You shudder at the feel of his breath on your ear.

You pull back a little, eyebrows raised and heart beating fast. “There’s a whole show, Mr. Barnes. I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“You won’t. Come with me.” He twines his fingers in yours and tugs you aside.

You let him pull you along, head swimming with his closeness, his strength, his intoxicating scent. He flashes his ticket to an usher at the start of a curving hallway, who hands Bucky two programs and unlocks a door twenty feet down the hall.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He pushes you inside and shuts the door behind him, closing the rest of the world out.

You finally tear your eyes away from him. When you realize where you are you can’t help but gasp in delight. A box at the theater? This is more fancy than the ballroom from last week, and certainly more swanky than sitting in the middle of row J down in the crowd. The box is small, cozy, with five plush chairs angled slightly towards the stage. Red velvet drapes line the railing, matching the dark walls and the upholstered railing.

“Not too shabby, huh?” Bucky asks. He finally drops your hand.

“Not at _all_ ,” you agree. You make your way to the railing and peer out over the crowd. Bucky’s still at the back of the box, so you scan for Rex Carston. There—just coming in, with his date. You stiffen a little when you realize Kasie is right behind them. She’s scanning the crowd too, but Bucky materializes at your side before she spots you.

You tear your eyes from the doors. Cold focus settles through you, stifling the genuine excitement that had been building ever since Bucky took your hand. You aren’t here to enjoy yourself. You’re here to distract one of the deadliest assassins on the planet. If he’s looking at you, he’s not looking at Carston, or Kasie.

And now you’re alone with him in an enclosed room.

Great.

“So,” Bucky says. His voice is low, husky. Despite yourself, you feel it from your head to your toes. He leans on the railing beside you, his hand barely an inch from yours. He runs his other hand up your arm, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch until his clever fingers catch the strap of your dress.

You can’t breathe. He’s so close, so solid. The whole world falls away, leaving only him. You tighten your grip on the banister, knees weak as you stare into his eyes.

So much for the mission. Ten minutes and you’re utterly lost. World’s best assassin? You don’t doubt it in the slightest. A hint from him, and you’d _beg_ him to murder you.

His eyes drop to your mouth. You lick your lips, heart beating wildly. What you wouldn’t give to run your tongue along his mouth…

“You here for me, darlin’?” he murmurs.

“Well, I’m not in someone else’s box.” You shift closer until your chest brushes his. “You here for me?”

“Might be.”

You open your mouth to respond, but his hand tightens around the strap of your dress. He yanks you away from the banister as the lights start to dim, his face darkening.

Bucky slams you against the back wall, pinning you with an arm across your throat. Your head rattles from the impact. You gasp for breath.

If your heart was racing before, it’s going at light speed now. Bucky’s pressed against you, his chest hard against yours. Despite the unveiled threat in his eyes, the position has your knees weaker than ever. Your skin prickles with every brush of his suit, with every panting breath. It’s so dark now that you can barely make out his glittering eyes, but there’s no escaping them.

“Are you here for me?” he growls.

You open your mouth, but how on earth are you supposed to answer? It’s hard enough to think while his scent floods your senses. Hard enough to form words with his whole body flush against yours.

What answer would even be honest?

“It’s complicated,” you manage. True enough. You wriggle a little, desperate for some relief from the pressure on your throat. The friction on your front sends sparks through you. Bucky growls again, wordlessly this time.

He steps back just enough to spin you to face the wall, then slams you back against it. Your cheek scrapes against the wall. You scramble, try to brace yourself against the wall, but Bucky gathers your wrists in one hand as the orchestra tunes up.

Terror grips your throat. Forget whatever fun you’d had flirting. The danger? It’s _real_.

You swivel your head, look for the shadow of his foot against the carpet, and slam your heel down on his toe as the first booming note starts from the pit. Bucky hisses in surprise, stepping back out of easy reach.

“These aren’t even my killer shoes,” you gasp, and then you feel a knife’s point pricking the small of your back.

You stiffen instinctively, ice flooding your veins, but Bucky’s already stilled.

“Did you just… crack a joke?” he asks.

You shrug a shoulder as best you can with both hands secured behind you and a knife at your back.

“I left all my fun things at home,” you tell him. Your voice is deceptively steady. “Humor is how I cope.”

A pause, and then Bucky snorts. The knife goes away. You slump against the wall in relief, tears pricking at your eyes. Your shoulders are starting to burn from twisting, but Bucky doesn’t let go of your arms.

The music is loud, shockingly so—weren’t they supposed to ease into it? The quick tension mirrors your current predicament perfectly, right down to the sensual strain of the strings.

“And what would you have done with killer heels?” Bucky says.

“A lady never reveals her secrets.”

“Is that so?”

Bucky pulls you back against him, trapping your hands at the small of your back. Your shoulders burn anew. He adjusts his grip; you gasp in relief. He squeezes your hip.

“How many secrets can a dress like this hold, huh?” he murmurs.

You shiver. Your core tingles at his husky voice even as your head spins. What happened to the threats?

His metal hand skates along your sides, searching for hidden tricks, but he comes up empty.

“Hm.” His hand settles just under your breast, his solid fingers drumming against your skin in time with your racing heart. Your nipple tightens painfully. His hand is so close, but so far. “Complicated, huh?” He drops your left hand and wraps your other arm around your hips, pulling you flush against him. He’s hard against your ass. “Think there’s a way to make this evening work for both of us?”

“Depends.” You swallow thickly, lust hazing your vision. You lean back into him and press your free hand over his. The metal is smooth and cool. “What did you have in mind?”

Bucky spins you in place and pushes you back against the wall. He pins your hands above your head and slips a leg between yours, his thigh pressed against your core. His grip is light enough that you could break free—does he trust you all of a sudden?

Even though you can barely see in the darkness, it’s clear his pupils are blown wide. He licks his lips, his gaze darting between your eyes and mouth. Did desire get the better of his common sense, too?

A light soprano cuts through the heavy silence.

Common sense? For fuck’s sake, who cares? Enough waiting.

You lean forward and kiss him hungrily. He responds with equal fervor, his lips hot and his tongue almost immediately tracing the seam of your lips. You let him in with a moan so sinful you give yourself shivers—or maybe that’s his hand suddenly palming your breast. Your nipples tighten. You pull your hands free from his lax grip and thread them in his hair with a sharp tug. Bucky breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, and tweaks your nipple in retaliation. You swallow a squeak of surprise, but there’s no hiding your reactions from _him_.

“Shh,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky glances over his shoulder; you follow his gaze. From here, you can only really see into the few boxes across the way. The back of each is shrouded in shadow, and even the people sitting are all staring transfixed at the stage. Still, they’re right there.

“The audience isn’t for us,” you whisper.

“Too bad.”

He slides the straps of your dress off your shoulders and kisses his way down your neck, sucking a mark into your pulse point. You grind down on his thigh and stifle a moan, dress riding up on your hips. He pulls back to watch, biting his lip and steadying his hands on your waist.

“Are you really just gonna stand there?” You reach down, squeeze his thigh, casually brushing the bulge in his pants. “After all that buildup?”

“What, and miss the show?” He squeezes your waist, face alight.

“We’re both missing the show,” you point out breathlessly. You drag your core along his leg, every inch flaring the fire building low in your belly.

“Trust me,” he husks, “watchin’ you riding my thigh is a hell of a lot better than whatever nonsense they got goin’ out there.”

“Maybe I should charge for—mm—front-row seating.” You grab his left arm to steady yourself, still chasing that delicious friction. The metal doesn’t give, but you don’t care. All you want is relief.

“You’re the one getting seated,” he quips.

You groan and roll your eyes, pushing him back until you’re standing straight. You fist your hands in his lapel. His hands settle back on your waist.

“Shut up and kiss me, soldier,” you order.

Bucky obliges, crushing his lips to yours. You hum against his mouth, your annoyance washing away as desire licks along your skin. The straps of your dress dig into your arms. Why hasn’t he taken it off yet? The thought vanishes as Bucky sucks your bottom lip into his mouth.

By the time you pull back for air, your head’s in the clouds and your lips are swollen. You steady yourself, trying to keep your knees from buckling

“Hell of a mouth on you.” Bucky pushes you down to your knees—so much for staying upright—and unbuttons his suit jacket. He undoes his belt, yanks down his fly and lets his cock spring free. “Gotta put it to good use.”

Your brain short-circuits. Dear god, he looks like this _and_ he’s hung? How the hell is he real?

You wrap your hand around his cock without thinking. Bucky hisses and braces himself with one hand on the wall and the other in your hair. His cock is thick, hot, heavy. There’s a bead of precum already leaking from the tip. You give an experimental, lazy pump of your hand. Bucky bites back a moan.

“Fuuuuck,” he rasps.

“Oh, you like that, huh?”

He scowls down at you, but there’s no malice in it, only raw desperation. You take pity and press a kiss to the swollen head, the taste of him heady on your lips.

“Bet you’ll love this,” you murmur, and you draw him into your mouth.

He groans, so loud you’re afraid someone will hear, but the whole world couldn’t get you to stop. You pump the base with your hand and hollow your cheeks over what easily fits in your mouth. He twitches, high-strung, as you hum around him.

Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair. You’ve barely begun, but he’s breathing fast, his cock pulsing on your tongue. Knowing he’s as desperate as you sends a fresh rush of heat between your legs. You slip a hand between your legs. The first touch on your clothed clit makes you shudder. You rub yourself through your dress, a flush pricking heat on your chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky says, voice strangled. “You touchin’ yourself? All wet?” He pumps your head on his cock, his head falling forward when you look up, eyes watering from the stretch as his cock nudges the back of your throat. “God, a fuckin’ vision right there. Thought I was seein’ an angel up on that roof and here y’are, suckin’ on my cock in the fuckin’ opera.”

His filthy words in that heavy accent—it’s too much. Heat clouds your senses. It’s just him, his cock, your mouth, and that burning heat between your legs, licking at your brain, tightening your breasts.

You cup his balls, squeezing them lightly, scraping your nails gently on the sensitive skin as you blow him for all you’re worth. Anything to drive him wild. To make him take you. The hand you’ve shoved between your legs is no help at all, not when you know what’s coming. You’re consumed with desire, with heat. All you want is Bucky.

He’s panting, eyes almost shut. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark, so you can make out every detail of his face. Despite the blur from your tears, you’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Bucky Barnes halfway to heaven.

A tear tracks its way down your cheek as you bob your head a little further every time. He’s leaking steadily now. The taste is sharp, intoxicating. You dip your tongue against his tip, seeking more. Hungry for more, more, more.

Finally, he snaps. He pulls you roughly off his cock and falls to his knees before you, gripping the nape of your neck and slamming his mouth to yours. It’s brief, rough, needy. Can he taste himself on your lips?

Bucky shrugs off his jacket and tosses it aside. You make quick work of the buttons on his shirt. His hands are already back on you, on your hip, your arm, your ass. His lips are hot as he peppers kisses along your jaw, licking up the one tear still clinging to your cheek. Bottom button undone, you push his shirt open. God, what a vision—the thick muscles of his chest, the dusting of hair half-obscured by his leaking cock… He’s every wet dream you’ve ever had come to life.

Your eyes land on the scars spreading from his left shoulder. Bucky freezes when you trace them with a finger. You glance up at him, surprised. He’s staring down at your hand on his scars with something like trepidation on his face.

Ridiculous. Doesn’t he know how perfect he is?

You lower your head, holding his gaze, and trace his scars with your tongue. You press a gentle kiss to the juncture where the metal plates of his shoulder meet his skin.

“Beautiful,” you murmur.

Bucky growls, eyes blacker than ever. He yanks your dress down, freeing your breasts and immediately drawing one into his mouth. The air is cool on your burning skin, but the wet heat of his mouth is _scorching_. You can’t see. His tongue flicks a rapid beat over your nipple; his teeth graze your skin and his fingers dig into your ribs. You bite your hand to stifle your cry, your other hand flying to his shoulder.

Bucky pulls back, his lips detaching from your breast with a lewd pop. He smirks, all danger and delight.

“Beautiful,” he echoes.

He eases you down to the floor, hands skating up your legs to gather your dress around your hips. Your heart pounds with anticipation. The higher he gets, the slower he goes. By the time he’s closing in, you’re squirming, reaching greedily for his hands and mewling as quietly as you can. He chuckles low and delicious.

“ _Shh_.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties. You lift your hips so he can pull them off. They peel away from your crotch last. And oh lord, they’re _soaked_. You hadn’t realized just how wet you‘d gotten, but now that you’re bare, you can feel cool air on damp skin practically halfway down your thighs. Your dress is bunched under your ass, and you can feel your slick dripping down, pooling on the fabric. You can _smell_ it too, heady and musky and surely enough to give you away. The looming threat of discovery makes you even wetter.

Bucky sits back on his heels. His pants are silky against your legs. He lifts your panties to his face and breathes in deep.

“All this for me? You shouldn’t have.” He tosses your panties aside and bends over you, his arms caging you in. His face hovers inches from yours. His cock is trapped against your stomach, scorching, his balls nestled between your spread legs. You rock your hips with a whine, seeking pressure, friction. You’re so wet and he’s barely even _touched_ you.

“Patience, darlin’.”

A shake of your head. You grab his cock—he gasps, jerking in your hand—and push him down your body until he’s lined up with your entrance. He raises an eyebrow when you let go of him. You spread your legs and settle your hands on his arms.

“Virtue’s overrated,” you breathe. You dig your nails into his arms, one soft and the other solid as a rock under his sleeves. “Fuck me til it hurts.”

Bucky nudges his cock against your clit. You bite down hard to swallow your moan, clenching your walls against nothing. You glare up at him. He smirks.

“If you insist.”

He takes his cock in hand, smears his precum around the tip, and guides just the head inside you. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as he stretches you open. God, it’s _delicious_ , but still so so far from enough. You buck your hips up, greedy for more.

Bucky gives a breathy chuckle as more of him sinks in. “So _eager_.” He pulls out until just the tip is in and shifts his weight on his hands. “Keep that mouth covered, darlin’.”

He slams his hips into you, burying himself to the hilt. Your eyes roll back into your head, eyelids fluttering shut as you clamp trembling hands over your mouth to stifle your cry. His balls nestle against your ass; his zipper scrapes against your inner thighs. But those sensations are _nothing_ to the brimming fullness of his cock. It’s a long few seconds before you feel safe enough to uncover your mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you say.

“Yes, that’s the idea,” Bucky murmurs, dark eyes glinting. His cock twitches—on purpose? You can’t tell—and you hiss, your hands flying back to his arms and your feet scrambling against the carpet for grounding.

He glances over to the side. Your panties lie discarded a few feet away, a dark shadow on the floor.

“Think I oughta put those in your mouth?”

You shudder, tongue tied. There’s an idea—drenched panties in your mouth, your cries muffled, hands secure above your head—but no. Not now. You shake your head and find your voice.

“I’ll be good,” you promise. “Silent as the grave.”

Bucky ducks his head and kisses your breast. His cock shifts inside you as he moves; you clench your jaw, squeeze shut your eyes.

“Not that silent,” he says. He kisses the other breast. Thoughtful of him, really. “I wanna hear you come apart.”

You open your eyes, your mouth to respond, but then he pulls out and slams back in. Your head falls back, a silent scream parting your lips as he pounds into you. His cock drags against your walls; he hits your clit with every thrust. Fire licks at you, clouding your vision, tightening your core.

Bucky drops to his elbows, his chest crushing yours as he drops sloppy kisses on your face. You turn your head aside, baring your throat, eyes squeezed shut but stars still bursting in your vision. His lips trail down your neck, attaching to the same spot he’d marked up before. You fist your hands in his hair, moan into his ear.

Still he drives into you. It’s rough, dirty. You’re so wet you can hear him moving. Behind the blood pounding in your ears and the opera filtering in from the theater, you can hear his cock pumping in, out, driving into you relentlessly, taking you apart thrust by thrust. You can’t think. All you can do is seek more.

You hook your legs around his waist. He goes deeper in now—you aren’t prepared for his cock to hit your g-spot. Your moan is fifty shades of pornographic for the millisecond before Bucky hastily covers your mouth with his metal hand. He stills, head drooping on your shoulder. His hair is feather-light against your skin.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he rasps. “You can’t— _fuck_.”

But he hooks your legs higher on his waist, then returns his hand to your mouth, slipping two fingers in. You swirl your tongue around the cool fingers as he watches, eyes pitch black and a flush spreading down his chest. He pulls his hand away, runs it along your lips. He settles back on two hands.

“Ready?” he asks.

You exhale slowly, then nod.

This time, he sinks in slow. You feel every ridge, every vein, your walls fluttering over his cock. Bucky straightens his arms and looks down between you, watching as he disappears inside you. You look too, lips parted. His cock glistens with your juices, sliding in so fucking easy. He was made for this— _you_ were made for this. You squeeze your walls around him as he bottoms out, vision going spotty as he brushes against every sensitive spot you have.

“Fuck—I’m almost—”

“Me too,” you pant. You push his hair back, tracing his brow with your thumb. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his face, mirroring yours. You stretch up and kiss along his jaw, letting the salty taste linger.

Bucky keeps fucking you tantalizingly slow. If you couldn’t feel his arms trembling, you’d think he was bored. But after a few more gentle thrusts, he sucks in a shuddering breath, sets his jaw, and snaps his hips into you again. He snakes a hand between you, rubbing tight circles on your clit with the rough pad of his thumb. White light bursts behind your eyes; your back arches, nipples dragging against his chest.

“Ah! _Bucky!_ Fuck!”

You bite down on his shoulder as your soul shatters. Pleasure rockets through you, fingers to toes to nipples to clit, every last ounce of sanity sucked away as he fucks you through your orgasm, relentless and unending and so exactly right. The world buzzes with white noise, soundless ecstasy. You barely notice as Bucky’s pace stutters and he stills, cock pulsing as warmth spreads through you.

He collapses onto you, his breathing loud in your ear as you come back to yourself. You lift one arm to stroke his hair. It’s an effort. All your muscles feel like jelly. Your heartbeat winds down, slow, heavy, weighted down by Bucky lying prone on top of you.

Slowly, your senses pick back up on the world outside of you and Bucky. The opera is still going—a duet? No, it sounds like an ensemble piece. Soprano notes, a deep bass, sonorous tenors. None of it sounds half so good as his dirty whispers had. You can’t help smiling at the thought.

Bucky groans.

“You okay there, soldier?” you tease. Your voice is hoarse, barely audible over the music.

“Fuck you,” he says into your shoulder. He pushes himself off you with a grunt, rolling onto his back beside you. The sudden emptiness is jarring. You follow his face with your eyes, already missing him. “Damn. Damn.” He rolls his head to smile at you. His hair is plastered across his face. You grin back weakly.

“Is my hair as bad as yours?” you ask.

He snorts. “Prob’ly.”

A long note of music comes to a close, and the bubble shatters with applause. You look away and force yourself up, pulling your dress back over your chest and tucking up your knees as you look for your panties. Bucky snatches them up.

“Mine,” he says, smirking. He folds them carefully and slides them into his pocket

“Weren’t you immobile two seconds ago?” you snap. You shift to sit on your knees, mind racing as you neaten your hair. Sex coats your thighs. How the hell are you supposed to manage the rest of the night?

The rest of the night?

Cold recollection rushes through you. Your heart rate, so calm before, jolts back to life. Shit. You _completely_ forgot about the mission. You stare at the banister, but from where you are, you can’t see a soul. Just Bucky. What’s happening with Kasie? With Rex Carston?

“What’s eatin’ you all of a sudden?” Bucky sits up and tucks his hair behind his ears. It’s a cute gesture. _He’s_ cute, with his pink cheeks and his softening cock and his hard abs. “Did I too good a job distractin’ you?”

“Excuse me?” You bite back a snort. “Is that what this was?”

He shrugs, a smirk tugging at his red lips. He tucks himself back into his pants and zips his fly. “You aren’t shootin’ anybody right now, that’s for sure.”

“True enough.” You watch mournfully as he buttons up his shirt, then shake yourself out of it. Is he being honest? You study his face, but he’s still a stranger despite the mind-blowing sex. You don’t know any of his tells.

If he _is_ telling the truth, it would be an awfully ironic coincidence. Both of you setting out to distract the other?

Well, it sure as hell worked.

At least, you didn’t _think_ he’d gotten wind of the other half of your crew’s mission.

“You don’t get credit for that, though. It’s like I said.” You give up on the mess between your legs and shake your dress back into place. “I left all my fun things at home.”

“Oh please,” Bucky snorts. “We both know the fun things aren’t the real danger.” He pokes your arm. “ _You’re_ here.”

You poke him back. “So are you.”

He narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t answer. You grab onto the nearest chair and pull yourself up, looking across to the other boxes. No one’s looking, thank god. You settle into the plush seat—this really _is_ the fanciest event you’ve been to—and look back at Bucky. He’s still sitting on the floor, stroking his chin and regarding you with a strange expression you can’t quite read.

“What?”

“Just thinking,” he says. He nabs his jacket from the floor and shrugs it on as he rises to his feet. “Mind if I join you?”

“Pretty sure this is _your_ box.” You gesture to the seat beside you. He grabs your hand as he sits, pulling it into his lap and stroking the back of it with his thumb. You stare at him, surprised, but he’s already engrossed in the show. The tenor is singing a pensive aria; the words are indecipherable, but the hopeful melody echoes your own sentiments.

“Y’know,” Bucky says, “I feel like this is a missed opportunity.” His eyes flick to yours, and you turn to the stage, cheeks hot.

“Probably.”

“This act is at least another twenty minutes,” he continues. “We could be doing all _sorts_ of things.”

A smile threatens, but you bite the inside of your cheek and try to keep your face still. “Probably.” You shift a little in your seat. Your thighs are still coated with evidence of your debauchery. Maybe he could lick them clean.

The two seats you’re in are behind three others. Between them and the banister, your lower half is fully obscured.

“Alright then,” you say, You hook a knee over the arm of your chair and give him a look. “Why don’t you clean up this mess you made?”

“ _Yesss_.” Bucky dives to his knees, shoving your skirt back up over your hips. His hands knead your thighs, spreading them wider. He groans at the sight of you open before him. You shudder at his obvious excitement. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re a fuckin’ vision.”

You thread your hands in his hair, ready to smother him between your legs, but a disturbance from the audience cuts through the music, stilling you both.

“He’s having a stroke! Somebody call an ambulance!”

Bucky swears. His hands tighten on your thighs as he stares at you. You shrug, heart racing but genuinely confused.

“Shit.” He stands up, tugging your skirt back into place, and goes to lean out over the banister. You stand carefully and follow him, scanning the crowd for the source of the commotion.

_Oh._

You fix your baffled expression on your face, but inside, you’re whooping with glee. Rex Carston is slumped in his front-row seat, head tipped back and eyes glassy even at this distance. His pretty date is hovering over him, hand pressed to her heart. An usher runs down the aisle as the music goes quiet. The crowd’s murmuring gets louder until you can’t make out any details.

A flash of deep red catches your eye. Kasie is sitting five or six rows behind the target, quietly talking to the old woman beside her. You can’t see her face, but she’s one in a crowd, too far to be an obvious target, too unruffled to draw anyone’s eye but yours.

“How the hell…” Bucky trails off.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised, confusion still plastered on your face. It’s not _all_ feigned—you have no idea how Kasie did it, but you sure as hell know she did—so it’s a little easier to maintain under the force of his glare.

“How the hell _what?_ ” you ask.

“You know what? Nevermind.” Bucky shakes his head and plops down in the nearest chair. “It sure as hell wasn’t you. Beyond that, god only knows. That guy deserved to die.”

Your heart skips a beat. You lean out again and watch as some EMTs rush down the aisle with a stretcher.

Deserved to die? So he _does_ know who Rex Carston is. But—Bucky Barnes is an Avenger! What does he mean, _deserved to die?_ He can’t wish people dead like that. Can he?

“That’s pretty callous for a superhero,” you tell him.

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not wrong.”

“I guess.” You sit beside him and clasp your hands together in your lap. You sneak a glance at him; he’s frowning at the stage, brow pinched adorably. You look away, gut churning. Adorably? He’s the world’s deadliest assassin, and he’s _adorable?_

You have _got_ to get out of here.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” you announce, standing. Your skirt sticks a little to your legs; you shake it out as best you can. There doesn’t seem to be any visible wet spots, at least not yet.

Bucky grabs your wrist before you can walk away. You narrow your eyes at him. He lets go. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“Come back?” he asks, softly.

Your face softens into a smile. You cup his face in your hands and bend to press a kiss to those pink lips, lingering as long as you dare.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the show,” you murmur.

He smiles back, eyes crinkling. There’s a touch of sadness there, but you ignore it as you pull away.

You’re outside in minutes, the cool air nipping at your skin as you hail a taxi back to the hotel. You wrap your arms around yourself as you watch the opera fade into the distance, the phantom memory of the Winter Soldier heavy on your mind, on your skin. You trace the blooming mark on your collarbone, wondering how long it will take to fade.

 

—

 

About two weeks, as it happens.

Rex Carston’s death is widely publicized as a tragedy, a shocking thing in one so young, so seemingly healthy. A few liberal publications lambast him, with all his issues, and you read one as you sip on a fruity drink, legs stretched out on your towel as you lie in the sun.

Thanks to the last-minute switcheroo, you’d managed to get your fair share for the Carston job. Poor Luka got the short end of the stick, but you’d taken pity and gifted him the next room over in your tropical hotel. The island was everything you’d dreamed of: quiet, secluded, sunny…

Nothing to kill but the fish.

You shut off your tablet, setting it back in your beach bag with a sigh. The evening sun is just starting to hug the horizon, and your stomach is giving you hints to go find some dinner. But first, you lean back and close your eyes.

Water lapping at the shore, warm sun on your skin, distant gulls crying in the gentle breeze.

A shadow slides over you. You crack an eye open, expecting Luka.

Your heart skips a beat. You sit up fast, mouth and eyes popping open as you stare up at Bucky Barnes.

“Do you know,” he says, plopping down in the sand beside you, “how _long_ it took to figure out where you were?”

“Uh, two weeks?” Your head is spinning. What’s he doing here? He’s not _dressed_ for murder, at least you don’t think so—all he’s wearing is a pair of swimming trunks; his metal arm is bared for all to see. But there’s no one else close enough to hear, to see.

“Yeah,” he says. “Two _fucking_ weeks.” He flicks some sand at you, and you yelp in surprise. “I thought you were gonna come _back_.”

“Sorry?” You cower under his glare.

“I was lookin’ forward to eating you out,” he grumbles. “Two weeks!” He shakes his head, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Such a struggle,” you tease. “How can I make it up to you, then?”

Bucky nudges you back to the ground. Your heart hammers in your chest. He leans across your chest, propped up on one elbow as he smiles down at you. He strokes your cheek, eyes softer than springtime.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he murmurs. “But how about dinner first?”

You smile and turn to kiss the palm of his hand. “Sounds like a plan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think :3


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